


Assorted Drabble Collection

by terryreviews



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 22:14:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20104441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryreviews/pseuds/terryreviews
Summary: This is an assortment of drabbles that I will, most likely, continue adding to for a while. They are all just their own enclosed fics unless otherwise indicated. They will, predominantly, focus on Aziraphale and/or Crowley but there will be other drabbles that will deal with the GO world/characters in general I think.





	1. No More Reports

**What about the no name, lower offices of Heaven and Hell? What about the beings that reside there?**

Heaven, Hell, Earth, it was all the same when it came to paperwork. After that first Great War, the Fall, things were a mess. A jumble of who was meant to be where. Names lost or changed, those who “ceased to be” stacked in unknown quantities, mess was the least it could be called.

And so, Heaven, with the best of intentions, of course, started a filing system. The categories were simple, the language basic, and it boiled down to Risen, Fallen, Gone. 

Over time, as inevitable with both demonic and human influences, the simple process of forms and filing turned into the overly complicated, nightmare-inducing, system of double, triple, quadruple checking, fine print, signatures, initials, and far too many papers than strictly necessary. Of course, that series of headaches trickled upwards and Aziraphale always dreaded filling out his.

More often than not, he’d miracle away the full report to the file clerk’s office. Sometimes though, he’d deliver them in person. Despite his dislike of the process, he was prompt and precise.

That is what Adriael liked. A neat, clean set of reports. And those very rare times Aziraphale would deliver directly to her (not many angels visited the clerk’s office or the archives) and would make small talk for a few minutes. The talk was bare, but at least it was something.

That and Aziraphale’s reports were some of the most fun to read. His having to thwart the very Serpent of Eden, Crowley, made for (even at their dullest) interesting reads.

As a rule, she didn’t really have an imagination. Angels were tools to spread the will of God and encourage blind faith and devotion. Imagination led to questions, questions led to damnation. She didn’t fancy herself with fangs or claws.

Still, alone nearly all day, every day, with scant to do but read reports, who would know? They were about good thwarting evil, or at least rendering it neutral, leaving the situation no worse for wear. In those occasions Aziraphale failed, those files found their way to the very back of the cabinets, forgotten and, at least by Adriael, forgiven. He was just one angel, practically the one angelic representation on Earth for most of its history after all.

Oh, what would it be like, she thought, to be on Earth and spreading love? 

If she were braver, she’d ask him about his work, about what it was like to be on Earth, about humanity.

But she wasn’t brave. 

And after learning, one sometimes hears things through the grapevine, about the apocalypse failing and…though unconfirmed to the lower ranks such as herself, Aziraphale’s failed death sentence for stopping it..she realized, rather forlorn, that she’d never get to read any more of his reports.


	2. Mr. Fell

Mr. Fell’s shop was the type you’d see in illustrations. Books along every wall in hand-carved shelves, stacked on spidling tables, antique globes and bobs hidden about, and, if you glimpsed into the back room, wine and various other alcohols that paired perfectly for a night in, rested in racks and in decanters.

An old fashioned, comfortable, space. Made even more so by the owner. Provided you didn’t actually try to buy one of his many books, Mr. Fell was an utter delight. A good conversationalist and good listener, he gave and took with ease in any discussion he found himself in.

He also had a knack for drawing the reluctant to him, making them comfortable, and soon they find themselves in a hug while crying out their woes while he offered words of encouragement and advice. In some cases, outright offering a place to stay or opening his old fashioned purse if one was in such dire circumstances.

Never was there judgment. Most times, he didn’t even ask what the matter was. He just liked to help. He never accepted repayment aside from a smile and possibly an update once things were settled. If one _happened_ to have some baked goods, he might be inclined to accept one of those.


	3. We Could Adopt

“We could adopt?” Aziraphale said, placing his book aside so to pay his husband the proper attention.

“I know but…it doesn’t feel right to me. We adopt a kid, raise it…and outlive it. I don’t know if I could do that. It’ll be hard enough when Warlock and Adam die.” Crowley had put his glasses on for this conversation. Something that he’d been doing less of since they’d moved into the cottage, especially since Aziraphale often encouraged him to not wear the things at all, at least when humans weren’t around. This raw bit of honesty and desire to talk about children of all things…well Aziraphale wouldn’t comment on the glasses. 

“I suppose that does put a damper on the prospect of being fathers,” Aziraphale tried to keep his tone light, allusive, but the sadness found a way in regardless. It slumped Crowley’s shoulders and equally darkened Aziraphale’s mood to see his love unhappy.

Of course, the subject of human mortality hadn’t often occurred to the pair. Not that it never did, not that there weren’t fondly remembered friends or acquaintances that were long since passed, but for them, they were so old. A human lifetime, though important, though wonderful, though sometimes a great comfort to them as they formed connections having no others of their own to do so with, were fleeting.

And with Heaven and Hell barred to them, it wasn’t as if they could pop in for a visit with those souls.

No. 

They were immortal, humans weren’t. Simple as that. Aziraphale especially hated the reality of death, as a being of love and compassion who could and had made quite a good amount of friends along his 6000 years, knew Crowley was right. They would have to say goodbye eventually to any child they took in.

“Even still…”

“No, you know what Angel, forget I even brought it up.” Crowley bit out and before Aziraphale could truly react, the demon quickly pressed a kiss to his forehead to show he wasn’t mad before practically running to get outside. No doubt preparing to give his garden hell.

“My, this is quite the pickle,” Aziraphale sighed. He glanced at his book. He didn’t feel like reading anymore. He got up and went to the kitchen to make some cocoa. He had a lot to think about.


	4. When Freddie Died

“When Freddie Mercury died, it affected me.” Crowley put the bottle back to his lips and drew out a long swig before pulling back with a satisfied _ah_. He was meant to hand it back to Aziraphale but the angel got the feeling it wouldn’t be coming back to him.

It had been two months since the averted apocalypse and more and more frequently the pair spent time together. Inch by inch their new found freedom seeped into their actions and their words. Six thousand years of barriers crumbling down. Even with Crowley letting chinks in his carefully constructed armor of cool indifference began to open up to his friend.

“You’ve never told me something like this before.”

Crowley snorted, “I wouldn’t have would I? Imagine a demon worried about a human going to hell.”

Aziraphale nodded, “I think we don’t have to worry about what is proper for a demon or angel any longer.”

“True,” another swig, “I even went down to hell that day. You know how the system is. You know how…” he struggled for the word.

“Unfair?”

“Yes, thank you, unfair it all is.“

“I’m afraid I am.”

They lapsed into silence, Aziraphale pouring himself a fresh glass of something expensive and sweet, before asking, “he wasn’t there was he?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Right,” Crowley plopped the bottle down with a thunk, “I’ve shared something about myself. Your turn.”


	5. Aches

The first thing Crowley became aware of were the aches in his hips and lower back. Gingerly, he peeled himself away from the bed and proceeded to get ready by heading to the bathroom. Not that he needed to use it, but a long, hot shower seemed like a fantastic idea.

Once inside, he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror and could not help the smirk as he admired the array of bruises.

Fingerprints on his hips, bites on his neck, lips swollen. 

He could will it all away, but there was something alluring about leaving the evidence that Aziraphale had been there.


	6. Best Left to Fanfiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over on Tumblr, Mr. Gaiman was asked two questions. How did Crowley contact Hell before modern methods and what music did the Bentley play before Queen. He said that the answer was best left to fanfiction. I wrote my concepts for both of these questions.

Before the convenience of car radios and television, getting into contact with, or contacted by, Hell could be even more unpleasant endeavor. One Crowley had often avoided. It involved blood. Human, animal, demon, it didn’t matter. 

More than once he rolled up his sleeve for a less than three-minute status report leaving him in pain and more than pissed. 

–

Before Queen, music left in the Bentley turned into big band jazz. Not quite Crowley’s taste, but he often danced to it with a drink in his hand whilst half heartedly tempting mortals. The roaring twenties didn’t make themselves that way for nothing.


	7. Business as Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hastur is not imaginative, he's not emotional, but he does notice Ligur's absence.

Hastur knew what he was and what he wasn’t. He was one of the fallen. Even thinking of Heaven turned his stomach.

The skies were ablaze that day, the air pierced with the sound of pure despair as the light grew further away. His own voice had joined the tragic chorus.

Hell had been dark, damp, and cold where Hastur landed. Landed. A _nice_ term for plummeting thousands of miles engulfed in flames to end up smashed and broken on the ground.

It took ages to crawl from the crater, fingers bunching around clumps of dirt and he could feel the aching pops in his joints and he pulled his weight out. With his blurred vision, he saw his blood (oozing from gashes on his hands and arms) turn from gold to black. His wings, he could feel them. Their weight offered…comfort…but they hurt. Oh, how they hurt. He didn’t look at them for years after. Only once when Lingur helped him remove a few loose feathers, did he catch them from the corner of his eye. Black. Standard demon.

For thousands of years, Hastur resigned himself to his fate. Came to relish it. Using humans, God’s preferred creation, against her, against the angels. Corrupting them, hurting them, just utterly ruining them. Proudly putting on display their weaknesses for all of creation to witness. They were pathetic. And _that’s_ who God chose. That’s who God supposedly loved more than any of the angels. Her precious, obedient angels. Not fallen ones like himself.

After the apocalypse didn’t happen, business was forced back to normal in Hell. Temptation and torture. The only difference was Lingur. Lingur was not there. The war didn’t happen, Crowley wasn’t dead, but Ligur was gone.

Demons didn’t feel sadness. They didn’t feel affection. They didn’t like or trust each other.

Yet, Hastur noticed Ligur’s absence.

Sometimes, they did temptations together, or would lean back and watch the other work. Often they shared views and conversation, brief as they were, about how sin should be gone about. In down times, when paper work didn’t need to be filed, when there were no mortals to tempt, they’d dance.

They’d find some late night club full of drugs and drink and would allow themselves this brief reprieve. They wouldn’t dance together, and Hastur could not and would not tempt with his dancing, lust wasn’t his thing. But he enjoyed watching Lingur bob and weave through the sweating masses. He would bump into everyone, spilling drinks, bruising bodies, working up a good brooding rage that, by the time they left, would lead to an all out brawl.

Why, why, why did he have to think about all of this now? Hastur knew he wasn’t imaginative, wasn’t thoughtful, and liked it that way. Kept things straight forward and simple. Still, as he stood across the way, a year after the failed apocalypse, from that cursed angel’s book shop, something stirred in his essence.

He could see Crowley, the bastard, and the angel through the window. They were unaware of him and had anyone known he’d come here to watch them (orders above and below were strictly do not engage, leave them alone) he’d be next on the rack. He had to see them though. Those responsible. Just once more.

If Ligur were here, he’d have already made a comment about how utterly disgusting it was that Crowley and the angel _enjoyed_ each other’s company, how Crowley was never really a good demon, all flash and no substance, and how much he wanted to douse the pair in holy water and hell fire, and Hastur would’ve agreed.

But Ligur was not here, and the surface was cold in the early morning. Rain fell upon his head and while he winced at nearly every drop, he had no energy anymore to shy away from it, allowing his entire form to become soaked.

Ligur was gone. There was no war. Crowley was happy. And Hastur could only continue on, business as usual.


	8. Enemy of my Enemy (or how Crowley stops Adam and Warlock from fighting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn't care much for rules and will break them if it means stoping his godsons from fighting.

Around the cottage was plenty of land for a garden, a greenhouse, trees able to spread out with bountiful blossoms of apples and massive bushes with berries, and plenty of room to run around in.

This was the first summer in the cottage and Aziraphale and Crowley had invited Adam, the Them, and Warlock over for a weekend.

After slathering the children in sunscreen (Aziraphale had purchased over six varieties because he was unsure what the best one was) they went out to play. Crowley worked in his garden, Aziraphale read under an umbrella. On a little wire table sat a pitcher of iced tea with fresh lemons Crowley had grown himself bobbing amongst the half-melted ice.

Both beings watched the children on and off as they ran and yelled, squirting eachother and hurling water balloons. They’d miracle the pieces away later. Dog yipped around their heels. For a hell hound, he was remarkably sweet.

Twenty minutes into the battle and they heard yelling. No, not just yelling, anger. Ranting.

The angel and demon shared a non-verbal conversation and with a collective sigh, they put up their trowel and novel. Aziraphale headed towards the children, he saw Crowley head toward the side of the house.

At his approach, the kids fell silent.

“Hello,” he greeted them, sounding ever like the teacher catching someone sticking gum under their desk.

The children were divided, glaring at each other. He did feel poor Warlock was out of his depth as none of them were on his side.

“What seems to be the problem?” He smiled at all of them in turn.

“Nothing,” they collectively mumbled, embarrassed at adult interferance.

“Come now,” Aziraphale held his hands primly against his stomach, “Crowley and I could hear you across the lawn. It were _nothing_ we wouldn’t have heard you at all.”

They all casted rueful glances at each other before they began to shout and point.

“One at a time please,” he held up his hand and once they were quiet, “Warlock?”

“They keep changing the rules and then not telling me!”

“We do tell you, you don’t listen!” Adam shouted.

“No, you tell me after you already get me!”

Then they all began to shout at each other.

“Everyone calm down! Calm down please!” Aziraphale tried to be heard over the noise without restorting to shouting.

“You know what, forget it. I don’t want to play anymore anyway!” Warlock turned, intent on stomping away, only to have his dramatic exit ruined by his shrill yelp of “Nanny!” A massive spray of water crashed into his chest.

Crowley held the hose, eyebrow raised as he went from Warlock to Adam.

“Hey!” Adam sputtered, holding up his hands up in a futile attempt to block the water.

“You’re not even playing!”

“Hoses are against the rules!”

“My squirt gun’s empty.”

Came the jumble of replies from the rest of the kids and Aziraphale stepped elegantly backward as the hose was turned on them.

All too soon, their indignant sputtering turned into laughter and retaliation as the children regrouped. It became them versus Crowley as they threw water balloons and refilled their water guns behind a tree.

In an effort to be fair-ish, Crowley didn’t duck or run, the hose acted both as a defense and offense as he got the ones daring enough to get close whilst getting the ones that peeked around the corners before they could get any ideas. He didn’t actively pursue them either, letting them conspire amonst the shrubs in peace. He was fully aware that Wednesday was sneaking up on him and gave Aziraphale a wink.

“Ha!” The boy tossed the balloon he’d been holding at Crowley’s back and all the kids swarmed with follow up balloons and squirt gun attacks, Adam and Warlock flanking him.

“Ah! Ah!” He jumped and flinched at the onslaught, ba ig smile on his face as he held his hand up here, purposefully missed a kid with the hose there, getting absolutely drenched.

“Come on Angel,” Crowley said, hair plastered to his head, beads of water clinging to his sunglasses, “water’s great.”

Aziraphale had already moved well out of the blast zone, content to watch from a safe distance.

“No thank you.”

Crowley, given a moment by the kids to recover, looked at Aziraphale with a smirk.

“You sure?” Crowley twitched the hand holding the hose and Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“Don’t you dare!” The angel stood his ground.

Crowley raised the handle.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warned right as a gush of water landed right in front of his feet. He lept back, to which Crowley increased the spray for each incriment the other backed away, chasing him with the water, until Aziraphale reached the safety of the umbrella.

He put both hands on his hips and huffed,

“Oh, you wily serpent!”

Crowley stuck out his tongue. The children had watched and giggled and once Azira (as they’d taken to calling him save Warlock who still called him Brother Francis) had retreated, they went back to each other, fresh out of balloons and fresh out of anger, moving on to a different game entirely.

Crowley slipped away unnoticed and jogged back to where the had had sat back down.

“Clever way to get them to stop fighting,” Aziraphale offered a towel. Crowley waved it off and snapped himself dry.

“Weelll,” Crowley rolled his neck a bit, “enemy of my enemy and all that. Get them to focus on me and they forget what they were even arguing about.” He took the angel’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together.

“What shall we make for dinner?” Aziraphale asked, bringing Crowley’s hand to his lips for a chaste kiss before setting it back down.

“Don’t know, what do we have?”

“Hm, I think some bread and cheese.”

“If we have butter we could do grilled cheese.”

“Would provolone and Italian bread make grilled cheese?”

“With enough determination and threats to the stove, don’t see why not.”


	9. First Kiss

Demons were creatures of comfort. _Their_ comfort. Denying what they wanted when they wanted it was not their nature. Crowley, however, was not like most demons. He had learned, despite his damned nature, the virtue of patience and the value of appreciating what he had rather than what he didn’t.

He’d taken his deeper desires and buried them, grew accustomed to the gnawing on his heart and twisted it into savoring Aziraphale’s company, treasuring every secret smile, every term of endearment no matter how platonic. Enjoyed lunches sitting close enough to reach out and touch but refraining as they dined on fine food and wound up at the book shop with better wine.

And, while gluttony was not Crowley’s sin of choice, he could glut himself forever on Aziraphale’s friendship even if lingering _want_ clung inside. A fickle flame of hope that one day they could actually run off together. That Aziraphale would _want_ to run off with him.

No “going too fast”, no “it’s over”. Just them and the freedom to be them, individually and more importantly together.

Since the adverted apocalypse, with no one coming after them, the opportunities for exploration became more and more frequent. Crowley’s resolve began to dissolve.

A whole year passed and the pair had allowed themselves more and more time together than in all the collected centuries they’d lived either hindering or helping each other as per their arrangement. 

It got to the point where the two had purchased a cottage for the weekends after six months of no wrath and at the one year anniversary of the apocalypse that wasn’t, it was where Crowley finally broached the subject of his desires.

Aziraphale was in the small kitchenette, preparing something for dinner and Crowley couldn’t help but watch. Enraptured in how the angel hummed and concentrated on the page in the cookbook. The angel had never really cooked before, but as this was a special occasion he decided to get a wiggle on and make something that required actual time and effort rather than a reservation.

Crowley’s heart beat just that much quicker. 

Aziraphale was cooking them dinner with his own two hands in the cottage they jointly purchased. It was a miracle that Crowley didn’t rush him right then and there.

“I do believe I’ve got the crust down nicely,” Aziraphale caught his eye once he noticed he was standing there. “It is now just a matter of putting the innards of the pie inside and baking it. I am so grateful that you grew those vegetables for me to use dear boy. They’ll taste far more fresh than anything from the freezer.”

Crowley cleared his throat, “no problem angel. Happy to do it.” He’d only put the vegetables in the garden when Aziraphale mentioned how nice it would be if they grew their own food. He typically stuck to aesthetic plants if he was being honest, not much of an eater, but if his angel wanted peas, carrots and anything else, well that was no trouble.

Aziraphale topped the pie with the remaining circle of dough and, with a bit of cheating when the knob wouldn’t turn, popped it into the oven.

“Not too long now,” he undid his apron, “about an hour or so. I do hope it’ll taste alright. Are you sure that it is okay that I made our Not End of the World anniversary dinner rather than making reservations somewhere?”

“Of course I’m sure. I didn’t spend all that time yelling at carrots for you not to use them,” Crowley smiled and Aziraphale returned it, melting Crowley’s heart melt just that much more and freezing his tongue in place.

“I do appreciate it, my dear. Truly.” He glanced at the timer above the stove, “hm, perhaps we could wait in the living room. I have a collection of short stories that I think you’d enjoy.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale into the adjoining room, his planned conversation being pushed further and further down in his mind, nerves being lost at how easy and friendly Aziraphale was. What if Aziraphale didn’t feel the same way? What if his confession soiled their friendship, their new lives? He felt like he’d burst if he didn’t say anything. He’d waited six thousand and one years, relishing any amount of attention the angel was willing to give him (even the bad encounters) and refrained from saying anything afterward because adjusting to their new lives took some…adjustment.

Now, Aziraphale was sitting across from him, getting ready to read to him from some book that he thought he’d like, share his favorite pastime with him, and he didn’t know what to do.

“Angel?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale was flipping through the book, trying to find the perfect story to read aloud.

“Are you content with how things have developed since the world didn’t end?”

The angel looked up, eyebrows knitted together, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific Crowley. Content with what specifically?”

Crowley took a breath, grateful that he had his glasses on. Despite Aziraphale’s insistence, he didn’t want to be without them. He wore them on and off, just as he always did, but was more grateful for them in moments like these.

“With how we’ve developed,” he gestured around the cottage, “this,” he pointed between the two of them, “us.”

“Is something wrong Crowley with how things have developed?” Worry crept into Aziraphale’s voice and he set the book down in his lap, “are you not content?”

“No, no. I’m…” He stopped himself. He _was_ happy with what he had. He was happy to spend nearly every day with the angel. He was glad that their lives were merging so organically together where he’d spend the night on Aziraphale’s sofa in the back room of the bookshop, or Aziraphale would come to his flat and watch a movie with him. He was more than pleased to have this cottage where, while the angel didn’t sleep, he could wake up, walk down the hall, and find him standing in the kitchen in a comfortable robe trying to flip pancakes.

He was happy with all of this. But…

“What is it, Crowley?” 

Crowley jumped and looked up to have Aziraphale looking down at him. When had he moved?

Aziraphale’s hand reached out and touched the top of his and almost immediately Crowley flipped his over and twined their fingers together. This was the first time they’d held hands. The angel only smiled, squeezing his fingers back.

“I..”

“Yes?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. Without thinking, he raised himself up in his chair and wrapped his free hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, gentle but firm. He let his breath fan out over the other’s lips before finally closing the distance.

The kiss was chaste. In it’s subtly, however, it spoke volumes. _I love you, please don’t leave me, I’ll do anything for you, I’ll wait another six thousand years_. And it was being returned just as lightly but no less wanting. _I know, I’m sorry I kept you waiting, you have me, I would die for you too._

They broke apart and Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together. They stayed like that, eyes closed, just letting themselves be immersed in the moment before Aziraphale let himself withdraw.

Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he instinctively tightened the grip he had on Aziraphale’s hand.

“Don’t worry darling, I’m not going anywhere. I just wanted to get the book.” He went to his chair and picked up the volume before promptly returning to Crowley. With little warning, he made himself home on the demon’s lap and if the way the demon’s cheeks reddened and tension his body didn’t give him away, it was the arm that came up to cradle his back and the fact that he buried his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I suppose tonight,” Aziraphale went flipping through the pages once again, “we will be sharing the bed.” He heard Crowley groan into his shoulder and grinned to himself.

“I…suppose so,” came the soft reply. 

Later, the pot pie had come out fairly well. A little burnt, but both of them had gotten distracted by the story (a story of old love). It was still the best thing Crowley had ever tasted. 

They then curled into bed together, Crowley in some silk pajamas Adam’s parents had gotten him for Christmas when he and Aziraphale had used their influence to invite everyone to a party, and Aziraphale in some fluffy button-up number.

“Goodnight Crowley,” Aziraphale placed his head atop the demon’s chest and let his eyes flutter shut, trying to become sleepy.

“Goodnight Aziraphale,” he replied and squeezed the angel a bit tighter than necessary but he knew he didn’t mind and he fell asleep with a smile.


	10. Aziraphale's Free Will

The angels were the blessed. After the first war, they retained their grace and their names.

Aziraphale had thought this a good thing. Validation of Heaven’s righteousness and a reward for obedience.

After the Garden, after speaking with Crawly on the wall about the nature of good and evil as they watched Adam and Eve slay a lion, doubt tried to creep into his mind. Not overly strong, but on the edges. It was squashed down fairly quick.

However, thousands of years was a long, long time. There were moments, in those years, that questions, that doubts about the goodness of Heaven, of God, of the nondescript plan they were meant to be playing out, would wiggle inside his mind, only to be pushed down.

After the failed apocalypse, Aziraphale had realized that it wasn’t out of devout loyalty to God or the Plan that made him push down his doubts, but fear. And, as he sat in his most comfortable chair one night with a good glass of wine, he realized how unfair it was that he’d spent so many years afraid. How unfair it was to the fallen that they fell. An all-powerful, all-loving parent (because that’s what God was really, a parent) would never play games with everyone like God did. Would never have sent Crowley plummeting headfirst into Hell simply for asking questions.

Fear of sharing that fate and the validation of having not fallen in the first place because he was _good_ made him not doubt. Or, if he did, hide it very well behind the possible comfort that God would sort it out, that it was apart of the plan. Basically doing what he did when he contacted the Metatron. Give God the benefit of the doubt that she was loving, that she cared about her creations, and would listen. She did none of those things.

So, here he was now, on the side of himself, Crowley, and humanity, with Free Will. He couldn’t pretend, to himself at least, that the fear of falling, or of being annihilated, didn’t flash across his mind, yet…if either of those things _did_ come to pass, at least it would be because of choices he made. His own free will.


	11. Dusty Top Hats

The invitation came in a heavy envelope made of textured card stock with a letter in a matching card stock. Handwritten in a swooping, old fashioned cursive, wax sealed, Aziraphale immediately brought it to Crowley.

“How charming,” he skimmed the words before fawning over them, “oh Crowley, we simply must go!” He thrust the letter into the demon’s hand and began muttering about making preparations.

Crowley too read through the invitation and sighed. Of course, the angel would be invited to something like this. His shop has been a staple (albeit with poor reviews online, not that the angel minded that or even knew of them) of the area for going on around a hundred years by this point. And of the few humans Aziraphale interacted with, he came across as quite interested in history and culture. Crowley remembered one time a customer managed to get into the shop and instead of buying anything, had a conversation with Aziraphale about his rotary phone and the history of communication that left both the mortal and the angel caught in a content glow.

  
“You’ll be my guest, won’t you?”

“Wha?” Crowley hadn’t been paying attention to the angel’s prattling on, focused on reading the invitation.

“I’m allowed a guest. Would you like to go with me?” The way Aziraphale asked, pouty lips, wide eyes, they both knew that the demon would be dusting off his top hat.


	12. Tiffany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is a kind person and would do what he could to help someone out. This includes one time where he married a lesbian.

“I believe we need a drink for this.” And Aziraphale shuffled them to his backroom.

Truth be told, Crowley didn’t want a drink. Rare as that was. He didn’t want this conversation at all, sober or intoxicated. He wanted to pretend that he hadn’t seen the box, had tried to scoop up the contents. He was good at lying. Had to do it for centuries. But the second the angel had come into the room, saw the box open, the contents spilled over the floor, he knew he couldn’t hide his confusion, his hurt, he knew he wouldn’t be able to pretend. Aziraphale looked at his face, and, despite the glasses, saw the distress, sighed, and now they were going to have drinks.

“She was twenty. Lower middle class, sharp as a tack. She wanted to be a writer of some kind and that’s how we met,” Aziraphale poured them each a glass of wine that he’d picked at random and handed Crowley his as he took his seat at his desk.

“She came into the shop. She wanted some books. She knew how to read a little she told me, was interested in becoming more literate and heard that Mr. Fell would be able to help.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes aimed at the ceiling as he recalled the memories, “I told her naturally I would help anyway I possibly could. There are many iin-betweenparts to the story, our budding friendship, my teaching her, but eventually ,I came to learn that her parents were pushing very strongly for her to find a husband and marry.”

“So how did that lead to you marrying her?”

“I’m getting to that. Well, poor thing came to me in tears one afternoon, telling me how her family was working to marry her to someone just a bit more wealthy than themselves. A good match they said. Perfectly reasonable, would increase their own wealth and status. She was very pretty and kind after all, and in their minds, the teachings I was offering her in ways of etiquette, not that I was any particular expert in woman’s etiquette mind, and literature and music, made her more than a catch for this gentleman. He certainly seemed to think so and was actively pursuing her hand. The trouble was, she wasn’t interested. For several reasons but the biggest one was that she was a lesbian. I was the only one she could trust with that secret. The only one that she could trust to help her.”

“And that led to a marriage?”

“Do you want me to continue the story or not?”

When Crowley said nothing else, Aziraphale continued.

“I admit now that, perhaps, my actions were a bit hasty. I could have, perhaps, helped her elope with a grand sum of money with her lady love. Strong woman, reminded me of you actually. But I didn’t want to do that. She was young and I wanted her to be able to pursue her interests in safety and comfort, not surrounded by scandal. Even if she eloped, it could potentially lead to trouble wherever the couple landed. She begged me. If you saw her face Crowley,” Aziraphale’s own face contorting, “She said that I was a man of good standing, of wealth, and such kindness. Despite my being much olderthan her pursuing gentleman, she knew of course I had no interest in her virtue, open secret about my supposed interests in men, that I was loyal to her and trust worthy. She would never have to bare children, she would be able to keep her lover even if it were in secret meetings in the shop,” When Crowley went to say something Aziraphale added quickly, “I pretended not to hear, they were making love and even if they were just having sex for fun it isn’t a sin to do so.”

“It was decided that she and I would marry. She even got on her knees when she asked. We were married that day.”

Crowley’s throat tightened, still he tried to add some humor to his tone, “her parents must’ve loved that.”

“They were quite livid, but, as one does, I persuaded them to see our union as a loving one and with the many social events, theater performances, lavish restaurants I took us all to, they came to accept it rather quickly. They rose in wealth and social standing, and I kept them there even after Tiffany’s death.”

“So, what happened?”

“She and her lover, Rose, moved into the shop. They stayed in the flat upstairs, I took the sofa down here. I assured them that, given my insomnia, I was much more comfortable falling asleepdown here in a comfortable chair than in the bed. We got on for about a year andhalf before Tiffany died in a carriage accident. The horses got spooked and poor girl was crossing the street. Happened in early October. After the funeral, Rose had gotten very depressed. She stayed here for another two months before she left. She sent me three letters after that, over the course of five years. She died from some illness, not sure which one but I believe pneumonia. She had traveled abroad apparently, but never quite got over Tiffany’s death. The marriage, them living here, she believed fully that they were going to have a long and happy life together because of my kindness.”

Aziraphale stopped to wipe his eyes and gave a small cough.

“So what did you do after that? I mean, the family and friends knew you, knew you were married to her and all that. Would’ve have been suspicious if you didn’t die and get buried next to her.”

“I used a miracle or two to make it so that, while everyone remembered me and even the marriage, they never questioned my never aging, they never thought deeper about it, until it sort of faded from memory all together. I became Mr. Unremarkable Fell once again.”

Crowley squirmed in his seat, feeling his face grow warm,“I never knew that.”

“There are quite a lot of things you wouldn’t know about me,” Aziraphale looked down at the desk, taking another sip, “there were long periods of time when we didn’t see each other.” He offered a token of a smile, mirthless, regretting.

Crowley’s mind flashed to that day in Saint James Park when he made his request to Aziraphale. They didn’t speak for eighty eight years after the angel stormed off.

“Did you…” he trailed off.

“Love her? Yes. In the same way I love most of creation. Perhaps a little more deeply, she was a dear friend after all.”

“And your wife,” Crowley didn’t mean to growl, but the ache in his chest needed voice.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrow, “she was never my lover Crowley.”

Even still, this Tiffany had gotten to share an intimacy with Aziraphale that Crowley had to wait for the near end of the world to enjoy (even if it was for pretense).

Crowley blinked fiercely behind his glasses, breath sharp, shallow, as he stood up, arms wrapping around himself.

“I have to go,” Crowley went to leave when Aziraphale suddenly appeared in front of him.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” The angel reached a hand out to grip the demon’s shoulder and he flinched away.

“Don’t.” Crowley wanted to run, to teleport, to just turn into a snake and slither away, he didn’t. He stayed in his human form, rooted to the spot, tears rolling under the seam of his glasses, down to his chin.

The angel didn’t move right away, just looked into Crowley’s lenses before his face softened.

“Oh my darling boy,” the tenderness in the angel’s voice made Crowley wince.

“Don’t,” he said again but offered no resistance as he was pulled into Aziraphale’s arms, his face smushed into his shoulder, the rims of the glasses pushing into his face, biting the angel’s shoulder. Crowley heard a snap and they were gone.

“Talk to me dearest. I won’t judge you. I won’t be mad. You can talk to me, it’s safe.”

Crowley hated talking about feelings. He might’ve been the first to say _I love you_ but he preferred to show his feelings rather than elaborate and complicate them with words. The vulnerability and sense of smallness didn’t help either.

“It’s…it’s not my business,” Crowley managed, his own arms coming to wrap around his angel’s shoulders, “who you choose to spend time with, or how, or why. I’m just being stupid.”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale rocked them ever so gently. He pulled away and caught Crowley’s chin with his fingers. Once he was looking at him, Aziraphale dabbed his cheeks with a handkerchief. “You are one of the smartest people I know.” He gave a kiss to the tip of the demon’s nose, earning a small sigh, “tell me what’s on your mind?”

Crowley blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, “ I wanted you for so long angel,” once it started, it kept coming like a leaky faucet. “Never thought you’d want me back. Even if given the chance.” The tears came too, flowing thickly and Crowley pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “Just to have an open friendship with you would’ve been enough. Being able to…” Crowley’s cries began to rattle his body, going from near silent tears to sobs, “to…sit next to you at a show. H…hold your hand. And…and here’s this human I never knew about _living_ with you. Getting to see you in the morning. I’ll bet that _she_ loved Shakespeare. Even the tragedies.” Crowley took a breath. “And I don’t know what hurts more. The fact that she was there first, even if it was for show, even if there was no sex. Or…that you…that you never told me.”

Crowley’s arms tightened, he moved his face back to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“It’s petty and childish and stupid but…but I can’t help it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being upset.”

Aziraphale’s hand came up to cradle the back of the demon’s head, “shh, shh, easy love. Listen to me now dear,” he placed a kiss to Crowley’s head.

“I love you. _You_ are the only being I want to share my life with. I will not pretend that Tiffany wasn’t important to me, but she is not you. Yes we lived together and loved each other as friends, but it wasn’t she and I that adverted the apocalypse, she and I weren’t in love with each other. Yes, she got to do several things first that no one had gotten to do with me up to that point, but that doesn’t cheapen what we have darling. You know that. If she had been my lover you wouldn’t have judged me for having sex before you after all,” he felt Crowley nuzzle him at that and smiled.

“Besides,” Aziraphale pushed Crowley back until they were eye to eye, “you and I have had, and will continue to have, many firsts all our own.”

Crowley’s eyes were red around the rims, his face flushed with the influx of emotions (hurt, jealousy, embarrassment) and he fingers kept clenching and unclenching in the fabric of Aziraphale’s back.

“But why didn’t you tell me?”

Aziraphale kissed his cheek, “I hadn’t thought about her in over a hundred years. There’s a reason her belongings were packed away. She was nice, and my friend, but it was a very brief period of time in my very long life. She died, I mourned, I packed her things away. I think of her occasionally but my mind is more or less occupied with many other things like yourself. Secondly, it is a rather personal thing. I behaved a bit unorthodox when this happened. Michael had even come down to give me a severe tongue lashing until I was able to explain the situation and that no, I would not be making nephilim with this woman, and given that it was already too late to really change anything, they were going to let me handle it. Thirdly, at the time, we had left off on bad terms. Imagine if I had told you then?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and smiled when Crowley let out a teary laugh.

“Probably would’ve drunk myself into a coma or gone after her with a bunch of annoyances.”

“Exactly.” Aziraphale slid his hand down Crowley’s arm until he could slot their fingers together.

“Anthony J Crowley, come upstairs with me.”

Upstairs, Crowley thought. To his and Aziraphale’s flat. _Their_ flat, _their_ bed. That’s why he’d been moving boxes in the first place, getting it cleaned up.

“I’m sor…”

“Hush lovely. All is forgiven. Come upstairs now and let me take care of you.” With a small tug, Crowley let himself be led upstairs to their still very cluttered, not quite homey, but still their’s, flat.


	13. State Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale saw a video or two about the State Fair on Crowley's phone and instantly wanted to go to one. So the pair find themselves in America, at the fair, to sample the food.

“Go on angel, try it,” Crowley held out the fried monstrosity dripping melted whipped cream into the cardboard container it came in.

Aziraphale side eyed it and said primly, “no thank you.”

Crowley forced down a smirk, “come on,” he picked up the desert by the stick it came on and wiggled it at him, “you love strawberries.”

One lone strawberry slid, sad and slimy, down the side of the pastry to join the growing puddle of cream.

“I’m not sure the ruining of a perfectly good strawberry shortcake with a greasy, fried, shell qualifies.”

That’s when Crowley couldn’t repress his delight any longer. An opportunity to tease and tempt his angel in one go was impossible to resist.

“Yet,” he let his tongue hit the T, “aren’t you always insisting that I should try things? That, unless I do how would I know if I liked a thing or not?”

Aziraphale’s face scrunched. Crowley knew that expression. The one that said “damn, I do say that don’t I? If I refuse I become a hypocrite”.

With a sigh, the angel held out his hand, “hand it over.”

Crowley did and instantly propped his head on his palm to watch.

With a raised eyebrow, the angel looked at the item and cringed when he got it up close. Leaning as far forward as he could, and bringing a napkin to rest against his chin, he bit into the soggy crust.

“Oh…oh that’s just…” he chewed slowly, held the napkin to his mouth, eyes clenched closed. When he swallowed he said, “that is sweet, soggy bread mostly. Greasy and I had half of a mushed strawberry in that mouthful.”

Crowley smirked, “want to try fried oreos next?” and outright laughed at the scandalized look on his friend’s face.

“Really now, as if the cookies weren’t decadent enough.”

“You eat four-layered slices of cake topped in ice cream and sauce angel,” Crowley lowered his glasses and a flash of amused snake eyes met his.

“A sliver at a time and those aren’t fried!” Aziraphale huffed, crossing his arms.

“Fair point I suppose, but didn’t we come here to try the food?”

“Yes, but I assumed it would be better.”

“At three dollars you get quite a bit and also what you pay for love.”

Aziraphale huffed again but relented the point to Crowley by not saying anything further.

“Would you like to see the pumpkin contest? Their pumpkins are apparently the size of small cars.”

Crowley shrugged, “why not? I do like gardening.”


	14. Happy New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first kiss happens on the New Year. The Year that wasn't suppose to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since I've done a drabble for Good Omens but I hope you like it. Happy New Year dears! It is now the roaring twenties again. Let's make them roar louder than the previous ones!

Three minutes to midnight. While niether had really paid much attention to this particular celebration before, the fact that it was even taking place was enough. Maybe now they’d be counting the years. 

“This is the second time I’ve seen the ball drop,” Aziraphale took his place next to Crowley watching the party and the timer on the demon’s large screen tv.

“Second time?” Crowley raised his eyebrow.

“I went to Time Square back in the eighties, I think. It is nice to watch the London celebration with you however,” he fidgetted with his hands, “I’m sorry that we are stuck here rather than at party.”

Crowley scoffed, “could never be _stuck_ with you Angel. Been to enough parties to know that I want to be here.” He scootched that much closer. Fiddling with his sunglasses.

One minute left on the timer.

“Crowley, would you mind taking off your sunglasses?”

The demon jumped, “why?” 

“Why are you suddenly so nervous? It’s just me dearest.”

Thirty seconds.

“There’s something I want to do and…I need them for it.”

Twenty seconds and Crowley’s leg began to bounce.

“My dear, you are quite worked up.” Aziraphale turned to face him.

TEN! NINE! EIGHT!

“Just don’t be mad okay?”

SIX!

“Be mad? Why would I be?”

FIVE!

“I would’ve asked but I lost my nerve and I didn’t think this through.”

FOUR!

“I’m sure whatever it is I won’t be mad.”

THREE!

Crowley moved closer, his face nearer to Aziraphale’s.

TWO!

The demon swallowed.

ONE!

He surged forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the angel’s lips. There was a beat, and he pulled away. Even with the sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell his eyes were wide.

“Happy New Year angel.” his voice soft, scared.

Aziraphale absorbed this, before smiling, “you call that a kiss? Come now, surely you can do better?” He reached a hand out and plucked Crowley’s sunglasses off his nose before putting a hand behind Crowley’s neck, cradling the back of his skull. 

He studied the demon’s face, leaned in, and placed a much fuller, slightly more forceful, kiss upon Crowley’s lips. 

When he pulled away, Crowley’s eyes were closed, his cheeks were flushed, and he let out a deep sigh.

“There now, that’s how you ring in the new year. A more fulfilling first kiss wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale smiled when Crowley opened his eyes and, timidly, returned the smile.

“It’s always the quiet ones.” Crowley laughed, touching his hand to Aziraphale’s whom took the hint and allowed their fingers to twine. “Happy New Year Aziraphale.”

“Happy New Year Crowley.”


	15. Doctor Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this, David Tennant and Doctor Who exists in the Good Omens universe. And Crowley, while not often, does get mistaken for David Tennant. And because he is, just a little bit, a good person and often he gets younger people (kids, teens, twenty-somethings) approaching him, he plays along with taking pictures and even learning how to sign Tennant’s name to perfection (with a little demonic miracle). And what makes it better is that David Tennant and him, eventually (in my mind) do contact each other when these pictures surface on social media and Tennant is cool with it because A) he can’t be everywhere at once B) it makes kids/fans happy C) Crowley is his ginger double and could realistically be used as a body double if it is needed (got this idea after learning about Michael Sheen’s father being a Jack Nickleson impersonator that would show up to things for Nickleson).

Aziraphale had gone to a book dealer even for a week. It had been tempting to go so he could bask in the other’s enthusiasm. He decided to hang back. The longer Aziraphale was gone, the better it would be when the angel came home and gushed over the event and newest additions to his vast collection. They’d go to the back room and drink wine as a new pile of books would be shown off. Crowley couldn’t help smile, looking forward to it.

Until then, he was alone.

On a Saturday morning, warm and mild, he sat at a small metal table outside of a cafe, idly sipping his coffee, letting his mind wander.

Vaguely, he was aware of the other people but he only paid attention when there was a whispered squeak of “excuse me?”

He lifted his head off his palm, blinking at the middle-aged woman with a child hiding behind her legs that had appeared.

“I’m so sorry to bother you Mr.Tennant, but,” she gestured down to her son, “my son is such a big fan and we were wondering if we could get a picture?”

It took five seconds before Crowley figured out what to do and put on a bright smile and met the little boy’s eyes (what he could see of them as he still kept hidden for the most part) “of course! No problem buddy.”

He slinked his long-limbed body out of the chair and kneeled down on the ground, holding his arms open.

“Go on honey,” the mother said as she pulled her cellphone out of her purse, getting it ready, “go stand with the Doctor.”

Very slowly, he moved, hands pressed to his mouth, as he stared at Crowley, taking a few hesitant steps.

“Take your time,” Crowley said, not moving at all, smiling, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

This apparently was the right thing to say because, while still utterly bashful, he could see a huge smile break out over his little knuckles. He had to be like four, maybe five, and even with Crowley on his knees, he was so small as came to stand next to him.

“Okay baby,” the mother raised the phone, “get closer okay? That’s it,” she said as Crowley gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Crowley said, “big smile buddy,” when he realized his hands were still pressed against his face. The poor little guy was shaking.

A small click and the woman said, “that’s it. Thank you so much. Say thank you to the Doctor Charlie.”

The little boy shifted on his feet and looked up into Crowley’s sunglasses. He tried and failed several times to speak, “th…”

Crowley could see how hard it was, how nervous he was, “hey,” he held open his hands, “you’re more than welcome okay?”

“Than…thank you,” it was so rushed and damn near tearful, “can…can I…” his words failed again but timidly he raised his arms.

“Hug?” Crowley guessed and smiled when the little guy nodded, “get over here,” he wrapped the boy in a gentle hug, hearing another soft click.

When they pulled away, Charlie murmured another quick thank you and rushed back to his mother, who also said thank you.

“No trouble at all, have a good day Charlie.”

Once they were gone, he whipped out his cellphone.

“Time to find out who Mr. Tennant and Doctor are.”


End file.
